


Scar Tissue

by sebviathan



Category: Psych
Genre: Banter, Domestic Fluff, Episode Tag, Episode: s07e03 Lassie Jerky, Established Relationship, Fluff, M/M, Mentions of canonical violence, Soulmates, heavy emotions but not necessarily angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-31
Updated: 2018-07-31
Packaged: 2019-06-19 02:36:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,227
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15500430
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sebviathan/pseuds/sebviathan
Summary: “It’s just—”“Crazy, yeah,” Shawn agrees before he can even finish. He slots either of his hands over Carlton’s own. “Like... finding a puzzle piece on the sidewalk and then, a year or so later, finding one that fits it on some other sidewalk."





	Scar Tissue

**Author's Note:**

> this takes place in no particular universe of mine, but i'd say that since they're living together by the events of Lassie Jerky in this fic, then they'd have gotten together before season 5. 
> 
> there's also direct references in this fic to the events of _Shawn Takes a Shot in the Dark_ , and _Shawn Gets the Yips_.

It isn't the first gunshot wound he's ever had, but it is the most serious. It's the first one that tore a hole from one side of his body to the other, with no shrapnel in need of digging out. It's the first one that he actually  _didn't_  get from being too cavalier with his own life in order to save someone else's. It's the first one that truly made him believe, if only for a short time, that those might have been his last minutes on this earth.

Though  _that_  in particular may have been exacerbated by the simultaneous gashes in his leg and fractures in his femur.

It's the longest that Carlton has ever needed to recover from an injury—the longest that he has ever needed away from  _work_ —in his life by far. It's fucking maddening. It leaves him mere  _paperwork_ to do to make up for the fact that he can't be on the field for over a month.

And if only because it's Shawn who takes up the rest of his time, who drives him to the station most days that he insists on going, who helps him with his bandages at home, who helps him achieve tasks that he can normally do on his own, and who has the  _grace_  to spare Carlton's dignity in the process...

It keeps his mind on one thing, for all of that time.

Then, after Carlton has healed enough to take the sling off, it takes an even stronger hold on his mind.

He should just be relieved to finally be able to move both arms again, to have blood properly and confidently flowing through his body the way  _it's supposed to be_  again. He shouldn't be thinking about it anymore. He  _shouldn't_ , but—

Really, what are the  _chances_  that he and Shawn would wind up having bullets pierce through them in the same  _exact_  place, with merely their entry and exit wounds switched?

Shawn even said it himself, when Carlton was still in the hospital.  _At least we finally got matching tattoos._

Granted, he followed that with "I'm not sure if they could be considered more or  _less_  conventional than the Harry and the Hendersons-themed ones I had planned. You know, one side of his face on my buttcheek, the other side on yours..."

But he planted the seed regardless. Not that Carlton doesn't think he'd have realized it on his own—how could he  _not_  have, when he and Shawn share a bed, and a bathroom mirror, and a shower?

He hasn't personally said anything of it yet, but the very first morning that Carlton wakes up without any kind of sling or bandages on, and upon which he finds Shawn already out of the room, standing at their kitchen counter... he resolves something with himself.

Eyes and limbs still heavy, he practically glides to the space behind where his boyfriend is waiting for something to pop out of the toaster. And he leans his chest very deliberately against Shawn's back, and presses his face into Shawn's hair and wraps his arms loosely around him.

Shawn, unsurprisingly, only breathes deeply in response. Carlton knew he would have heard him coming up.

"Are you trying to line our scars up together?" he asks casually a moment later.

Carlton should have expected that too, now that he thinks about it. Now that he's a little more  _conscious_ , really.

"Um." He doesn't move a muscle, but briefly freezes up. "What makes you say that?"

"Uh... well, I guess my first hint is that I did mention to you, 'bout a month ago, that 'we could stand front to back and match them up.' And my second is that they're literally lined up perfectly right now."

Even after all this time, Carlton has to catch himself as he reflexively opens his mouth to ask  _"How can you tell?"_  He  _knows_  how easily Shawn picks up on his surroundings—how it isn't unreasonable that he would feel, what, the difference in pressure between the rest of his back and his exit-wound scar, even through both of their shirts? ...It's just still hard to fully comprehend.

"...Of course you can tell that," he mumbles instead.

Shawn hums in response. In  _amusement_ , Carlton assumes. It's fair, considering how little he ever indulges in fancies like this.

But he doesn't make any word or movement of dissent, so Carlton remains like that, draped over him, even as his poptarts pop up. He brings his arms up tighter, sliding his right hand only somewhat consciously over the scar at the top of Shawn's chest. He feels warmer when he does.

His boyfriend seems to accommodate him by making only small, restricted movements to put his poptarts onto a plate. Even so, Carlton can feel Shawn's inevitable comments bubbling up, and he feels the need to preemptively justify himself.

"It's just—"

" _Crazy_ , yeah," Shawn agrees before he can even finish. He slots either of his hands over Carlton's own. "Like... finding a puzzle piece on the sidewalk and then, a year or so later, finding one that fits it on some other sidewalk. Or maybe not  _so_  complicated—more like those shape-in-a-hole toys for little kids... But you know I can still get stumped by those things from time to time."

 _God_ , he's relieved.

He presses his face into Shawn's neck and chuckles.

"...Is it—" he starts after a second, and stops himself for just a moment before letting the impulse take him. "Is it especially crazy that I'm almost...  _glad_  that I got shot?"

When Shawn doesn't immediately respond, Carlton hurries to elaborate: "I obviously would have preferred  _not being shot_  to being shot. That's a given. But I—" A short laugh breaks out of his throat. He realizes how crazy he will, indeed, sound. "I just... know that if I had to  _choose_  a spot. It's. I know it's stupid—plenty of other places to get shot would have been much safer and warranted much less hospital time..."

Carlton swallows.

"But... god, I might as well say so—I like that we  _match_? You know I would have done everything in my power to keep you from getting shot in the first place if I ever  _could_  have, but—"

Shawn twists around in his arms, simultaneously wiping crumbs off his face.  _So_ that's _why he didn't say anything._

And he beams. Carlton's heart skips a beat, nevermind how many times he's seen Shawn look at him like that by this point. It never fails to.

"Lassie, you don't know how glad I am to hear you say that," he tells him, his hands on either of Carlton's biceps. "I wasn't gonna say anything because—well, shit, it would have sounded  _bad_ , but... It's kind of actually fucking  _cool_ , isn't it?"

For a moment, he's breathless. "...It beats matching tattoos any day, for sure."

Even with Shawn openly agreeing with him, it still feels crazy to say it aloud. It feels  _insane_  to appreciate either of their scars in any capacity while also remembering what it took to get them—the horror of knowing that  _Shawn_  had been shot and captured all that time ago, especially.

From his own, he recalls the adrenaline of being up against terrorists, the fear for Shawn's and Gus's and Juliet's safety, and very brief pain before going into shock. Hell, taking a bear trap to the leg was ultimately worse. At least he had  _dignity_  in being shot when he was, even if he believed then that he might die, that they in fact  _all_  might die...

But still.

_Shawn._

He almost hates himself.

Then Shawn ghosts his palm over Carlton's upper chest.

"Is it still sensitive?" he asks, oddly casual.

"A little," Carlton tells him truthfully, shivering a bit at the touch. "But, uh. Not in a bad way."

He might expect Shawn, then, to tease about him meaning that  _it's in more of an erotic way_ , but—

Shawn leans forward and presses his lips to Carlton's shirt, over the raised, uneven bump of his scar. The entire left side of his body seems to tingle. His breath hitches, and he immediately  _knows_ , by the squeeze on his arms, that Shawn can tell.

He coughs to hide it regardless, and he asks, "Is  _yours_  still sensitive?"

"Why don't you find out?"

"Oh, god, this  _is_  becoming an erotic thing for you, isn't it." Even as he monotones that, Carlton slides a hand up Shawn's chest to his own scar.

Shawn makes an exaggerated moan the moment that his fingers touch it. Carlton rolls his eyes, but can't help but smile.

It's not like he avoids touching it otherwise, or like they even purposely avoid the topic of Shawn's scar, or like he's never had the scar tissue under his lips before, or like he's never noticed Shawn breathe a little bit faster whenever he did...

It makes sense, he thinks, that they might act a bit like erogenous zones.

He also can't help but think of how that's yet another way that these scars feel like some greater connection between them, almost like—

"Lassie?" Shawn's vaguely confused tone snaps him out of it.

He realizes that he's been gripping the counter with one white-knuckled hand and brushing Shawn's scar with the thumb of the other, staring wistfully downward.  _Jesus._  Is he just tired, or is he really  _that_  much of a goddamn romantic?

"...Hey," Shawn says, softly, before he can say anything himself. "I'm fine."

"It's not that," Carlton immediately reassures him. Then somewhat unconsciously he adds, "I've just been thinking—"

And he stops himself, which is always a stupid thing to do when he's around Shawn. But he wouldn't be able to  _not_  hesitate with the truth in this particular matter even if he wanted to... because the truth is goddamn embarrassing just to actively  _think_  about. Because he is a detective in his  _forties_  who has seen almost every brand of horror that the world has to offer and who makes a  _point_  of grounding himself in facts instead of fancies, because while he  _does_  trust Shawn to not be toying with his feelings and he  _has_  trusted Shawn for a long time, it still feels stupid because—

Because he has believed this sort of thing once before and been wrong! And he is terrified of feeling that kind of let-down again.

But Shawn's eyes are burning holes into his own, giving him absolutely no choice. If he attempted to brush it off  _now_  he would only have worse regrets.

"Uh, Lassie? I'm digging the dramatic pause, but the suspense is  _killing_  me."

Carlton prepares himself with a deep breath.

"I was  _thinking_ ," he repeats, still feeling a bit dizzy, "or... I was wondering. Just a passing idea from time to time. Vague. An  _intrusive_  thought, really..." Damn, he didn't think he'd get this far without Shawn interrupting him. "...It's that—I dunno, do you think it's possible that... we're soulmates?"

It ultimately comes out like the most casual of questions, but Carlton's heart promptly jumps into his throat to follow. It takes a painful amount of courage to look Shawn in the eyes, then.

And  _Shawn_  is merely pursing his lips and staring, wide-eyed.

Oh, god.

Carlton swallows it back down. "Yeah, I know it probably isn't possible. Nevermind. I'm tired. I—"

"What? No, no, no—" Shawn grabs him and pulls him back, by the fabric of his shirt, before he can slink off back to bed. "No, I... I wanna hear your theory."

"Don't mess with me right now, please—"

"I'm not." He sounds and looks serious, but Carlton isn't fully convinced until Shawn squeezes his hand and tells him, without breaking eye contact, "You said you've  _been_  thinking about it. I assume that means you have more than this particular coincidence in mind, and I want to hear it. I also want to know if you think it's closer to a Buttercup and Westley situation, or a Batman and Superman situation."

That last bit is, oddly, what throws him.

"I—well, first of all, it's obviously a Batman and Superman situation. And... as much as I'd  _like_  to be the Batman, I know that I'm easily the alien farmboy reporter between the two of us even if you  _weren't_  genuinely more of the tragic and themed detective type..."

He trails off on that tangent, a moment later finding Shawn grinning at him and looking like he might even cry.

"...God, I love you so much."

Hearing that motivates Carlton to continue almost immediately,

"There was that time you saved my life. About three years ago, after Ivan Petrovich was released and... and Victor Salamatchia's father was trying to kill nearly all of us. I mean, you saved my life at least  _three_  times during that whole case, but—one of them. I was  _miles_  away, in my car, Shawn. There's no way you could have actually known.  _I_  couldn't have even known. But... god, if you'd called me just  _two seconds_  earlier or later than you did? I'd have been shot dead! And—" He wipes his face, feeling hysterical. "—and there was the Back Bay Killer, my  _big fucking case_ —the one that got me to head detective in the first place and I wouldn't have solved it without you and I didn't even  _know_  you yet, and...

"And maybe I'd have still made it to head detective before you waltzed into the station a couple years later anyway. Fuck, I'm  _sure_  I would have, but—there's still  _everything_  else. You can't even know how  _perfect_ of a time it was that you showed up, and I think about that—and about... everything else—every goddamn day of my life.  _Especially_  now that I've been shot. I don't know how much I really believe in the concept of fate and soulmates but—dammit, Shawn, I  _want_  to. It would make so many things make more sense. And I just know—even though it certainly isn't possible, I  _know_  that if I  _could_  find out for sure, if some god could tell me so... I'd be so happy to know that, Shawn. I can't stop thinking about it."

That's definitely too much. He's gone off the deep end. He sounds insane. Coincidences happen and the universe doesn't operate around any one person and Shawn isn't the only person he's ever shared coincidences with _anyway_ —

Shawn squeezes his hands again. This time much tighter.

And he stills looks like he's going to cry, but now without the grin.

"I didn't mention it before because—well, it just didn't seem like a thing to mention, I guess," he says abruptly, with a sharp sob of a laugh that makes Carlton's eyes widen. "But when you got... when I  _watched_  you get shot, while cowering in the corner with Gus and my stupid camera—" Another sob-laugh. "I  _swear_ , I... I felt my own shoulder throb in a way that I haven't felt since the day  _I_  got shot. It— _honestly_ , Lassie, was not just some tingle. It was excruciating. But it didn't even last a whole second, and for the past six weeks I guess I just assumed it was some empathy thing. Which it  _could_  be, I'm not knocking that. But the actual  _crazier_  thing is... somehow, even after I re-lived the sensation of getting shot while watching  _you_  be shot, I knew you were still alive. I just knew you were. It was like— _my_  heart was beating, and I felt like that meant that yours was, too. And I was right."

If Carlton wanted to, he could pick all of that apart scientifically and come to the conclusion that it didn't necessarily prove, or even constitute serious evidence, of them being spiritually connected. He doesn't even need to  _try_  to see the weak spots in Shawn's logic.

The thing is, he doesn't want to. He doesn't give a shit about what's  _logical_  or what's  _scientific_  right now. All that matters... is that Shawn has been feeling it too. That Shawn agrees with him, and that he sees something bigger, and that  _he wants it to be true, too_.

"So... that's a yes," Carlton says, with a jump of his heart, "...that you think it's possible."

"Anything is  _possible_ , Lassie—the real question should be, do I think it's  _probable_? ...And the answer to that would be, in the most technical of terms, 'hell yes.' But I'm still gonna need you to cite your sources."

Shawn is clearly just as nervous as he is, ultimately, being this vulnerable—Carlton recognizes the way he's trying to make this funnier even while telling him the serious truth. And the way he's evening out his voice. And the way he's still squeezing Carlton's hands like his life depends on it.

He has to admit, he's a little glad for the deflection himself.

"My sources are," he begins to tell him, leaning closer, "first, that I love you. Lassiter, Carlton; Santa Barbara, California; dated... March 5th, 2006. The second is Encyclopedia Britannica."

Surprisingly, the both of them maintain a straight face.

"You need _three_  sources."

Carlton presses forward to kiss him. Shawn melts and hums into it, tangling his fingers in Carlton's shirt, but pulls away giggling only moments later.

"Is that your third source, or are you trying to bribe the professor?"

"Like  _you_  would be the professor," he scoffs, almost straight into Shawn's mouth as he kisses him again.

It's another minute before Shawn breaks once more, though much less abruptly now, and seemingly just to mutter against his lips,

"I can't believe you remember the exact day we met."

"Of course I do. I could tell you the exact date of any of my most significant busts."

"Mm. Now, could you tell me the flavor of the poptart that you've kept me from eating more than a bite of?"

"Hot Fudge Sundae. Which I know because I'm the one who  _bought_  it."

"...Fuck, you  _are_  my soulmate."

He realizes that he's all but forgotten what sparked this conversation in the first place when Shawn pulls him in by the neck for a deeper kiss and, with his other hand, thumbs deliberately over his scar.

Carlton promptly, and firmly, slides his free hand over Shawn's scar in return. He feels Shawn shudder and exhale deeply through his nose when he does,  _surely_  getting as lightheaded as he is, and as warm, and intense, and...

This is it.  _This_  is every moment that he has spent wondering if this coincidence truly means anything condensed into one— _answered_  by one. He can't worry about whether or not it's stupid to think so because he fucking  _feels_  it. He feels a sense of significance and  _power_  in kissing and holding Shawn like this, and in having said the words aloud, that he knows he has not felt outside of any of their other milestones.

Maybe he's just happy and in love. Maybe there's no such thing as soulmates. Maybe there aren't even higher powers or other planes of existence let alone  _souls_  at all! Neither of them will be able to know for sure until they're dead.

But he's decided that it's possible.  _Probable_.

And even if it isn't true, he's fucking glad that they match.

**Author's Note:**

> about a week ago, while falling asleep, i started having a mental conversation with shawn as lassiter that became this. and i'm fucking,, Gay, so
> 
> anyway imo they're DEFINITELY soulmates, and shawn said so himself in _The Head, The Tail, The Whole Damn Episode_. he DID say "platonic soulmates" but like, shawn is always cushioning and deflecting to keep from being too vulnerable so. as far as i'm concerned? canon.


End file.
